


red in the morning, blue in the evening sun

by gingerbread man (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: But I spent a lot of time writing it, Dream Journal, Dreams, From Hello Seattle, From an Owl City song, I just thought I should point that out, It ended up pretty long I guess, M/M, Post-Scratch, Post-Scratch John, The title is a lyric from a song, The title is purposely lower case, This probably sucks, post-scratch dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/gingerbread%20man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>well anyway, that’s him. he was dave strider, he was the knight of time, and he was the love of my life. and there you have it, journal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red in the morning, blue in the evening sun

**Author's Note:**

> I said I was done with post-scratch.
> 
>  
> 
> ((((I lied))))

Dirk finds the notebook in the backyard one day -- you’d told the kid to stop digging around out there, that one of these days he would find an old skull or some shit and then you’d have a poltergeist on your hands, but he just doesn’t listen. You call your sister Rose to ask for advice, but all she tells you is, “Perhaps you should have raised Dirk better, Dave,” in that condescending tone of hers.

So you might not be the best dad, but at least you aren’t passive aggressive. You’ve only visited the Lalonde residence a few times, but that’s enough to know Rose and Roxy are suspended in a constant battle of “who can be more passive aggressive than the other,” and it would be semi-entertaining if it weren’t already too busy being _fucking terrifying_.

Besides, you happen to think you raised Dirk well. His only problem is that eerie fetish with digging up trash from the backyard and then stashing it in his bedroom, even though he tells you he re-buries whatever he finds (he forgets that you’re the one who taught him how to be a stoic little shit, and you can see right through it) because he thinks it should stay in its rightful place.

He never outright shows you the shit, until one day he comes running inside and slams a notebook down, right on the counter. “Holy shit, Dirk, we eat there,” You say, curling your lip in disgust at how grimy and filthy the thing is. “You can’t just slam your gross findings down on my goddamn counter.”

He shrugs carelessly. “Oops, forgot about being a well-mannered kid,” is his eloquent response, and you cast him a glare beneath your shades. “By the way, we usually eat in front of the TV, you’re a liar. Anyway! It’s a journal, and I read some of the shit inside and I think you should read it.”

You raise an eyebrow and sip your apple juice, completely disinterested in Dirk’s finding of a disgusting old notebook. “Really, now? And why is that?” You reply sarcastically, and while you’re walking to the living room you can feel his glare on the back of your head. Ever-persistent, he follows behind and stands right in front of the TV.

“Not cool, Dirk.” You say, but you know he won’t move until you give in, so you settle for flicking the TV off for now. “What makes you think I should read it? Shit’s nasty.”

He hasn’t mastered the art of being stoic and unreadable yet, so you can tell Dirk is beginning to get frustrated when he breathes out shakily. “If I clean it, will you fucking read it?” He snips back, and you scold him for saying fuck. He knows you don’t care about him swearing, but he’s only ten, so you figure he should wait to say the big swear words (like that one).

“Maybe. Jury’s out on it.”

“Dad,” Dirk whines. “Come on.”

You shake your head, rolling your eyes beneath your shades. You aren’t sure why on earth a gross old notebook he’d found in your backyard means so much to him, but if you can get him to shut up just by reading the thing you’ll agree. “Alright, but you have to go to your room for the whole time I’m reading it and leave me the fuck alone.”

He nods and runs to clean off the notebook, like he’d promised, and when he brings it back it’s in much better condition than before. It’s one of those marble ones, blue and white, that you can get at Walmart for fifty cents or less, especially when it’s back to school time. Dirk sets it into your open palms, turns on his heel, and makes his descent upstairs. When you hear his bedroom door slam, you examine it closer.

There’s a name written on it. The handwriting is almost incomprehensible by now, probably from being buried in your yard for who knows how long. But, you can still make out that it says, “John Crocker,” in all lowercase letters. You raise both eyebrows so far they probably disappear into your hairline -- that name is all-too familiar, but you can’t place where you’ve heard it before so you give up trying.

You flick through it quick, noting that every page (there are fifty) are full with bright blue font. It’s going to take you at least two hours to read this all; what with how distracted you get, but you sigh. You told Dirk you would, and you guess you should try to be a good guy and stick to your word (even though the TV is practically calling your name). You flip back to the first page and start reading, removing your sunglasses and setting them on the coffee table so your view isn’t obstructed.

april 13th, 1933

wow, i can already tell this journal’s going to be stupid. like, one of the stupidest things i’ve ever done.

but if i don’t try, jade’s going to yell at me. so i will! my name is john crocker, and today is my thirteenth birthday. my cousin, jade, decided she was tired of being my therapist and then bought me this thing. she calls it a “dream journal” and tells me she bought it months ago, but let me tell you, that’s a lie. this is a last minute gift, but at least she cares enough to hop to at last minute.

it isn’t like anyone’s going to read this, anyway. not even her. she told me this journal is absolutely private, just a place for me to spill my thoughts. when i asked her what the point was if no one was going to see this, she gave me a death glare but didn’t answer my question. bluh.

this will probably end up in the pile hidden in the back of my closet that i call the “worst gifts” pile, buried beneath mounds of socks and underwear. no, grandma, i don’t need anymore underwear. just because you don’t want to buy me something cool doesn’t mean you need to buy me undergarments. no, grandma, jade does not like the fact that you bought her a bra and she had to unwrap it in front of her entire family.

i’ll never let her live that one down.

anyway, i’m getting off track! sorry, it happens sometimes. this is probably going to be the first and only entry in this notebook, so don’t expect to hear anything else from me ever again. this is the last you will hear of john crocker, mark my words!

[ john crocker ]

You snort -- who writes their name in brackets? Girls sometimes write their names in cursive, you know from reading Rose’s diary when the two of you were kids, and you aren’t sure what a guy would do. You know they wouldn’t put brackets around their name, that’s for sure.

You’re sidetracked for a minute or so before you remember what you’re actually supposed to be doing, which is reading this journal, so you flip to the next page and smooth the creases. This one isn’t as immaculate as the last; the blue is smudged, looks like water damage.

july 4th, 1933

ah, yes, the fourth of july. the day when dad invites the entire family over and sports his cooking skills by making the biggest meal possible, even though our family isn’t even that big. seriously, there are only about ten of us, fifteen at max. it depends on how many aunts and uncles of mine decide they actually want to come visit.

a few months ago i promised i’d never write in this again, but my dad had made a cake and when he asked me if i wanted any, i panicked and told him i couldn’t because i had something important to do upstairs. he raised an eyebrow, but told me if it was that important i didn’t have to have dessert.

thank god, i don’t need any more cake than i’ve already had. he’s probably going to save me a piece, though, so i guess there isn’t any escaping it.

jade has stopped listening to my dreams, so i haven’t really told anyone about them in a few months. i guess i could write about them in here, since that was the whole point of this thing in the first place. so let’s get to it.

ok, i dream about three people usually. four if you count me, but i don’t count right now, shh. i don’t know what to call them, they don’t have names, so i usually call them “the girls” and “the boy.” stupid, huh? you would call them stupid things if you could never figure out their real names, too.

anyway. there are two girls. one looks eerily like jade, with long black hair and these really bright green eyes that burn into your soul. she sometimes has dog ears, which is weird, but we’ll let it fly. the other girl has blonde hair, really short (i think you call the hairstyle a bob?) and soul-wrenching violet eyes. and i dunno, sometimes it’s just me and them or sometimes it’s me and only one of them.

but then there’s the boy, ok.

he has platinum blonde hair, so bright that it rivals the sun. i’m serious, the sun has nothing on his hair. he always wears these sunglasses, and for some reason i have this odd feeling that he got them from me. i had a dream once where i saw his eyes, and they were red - no really, you’ve gotta believe me. wait, who am i trying to convince? this is private, duh. but yeah, he has red eyes. really red. fresh strawberry red.

and sometimes when i dream it’s just him and me, and we’re always doing something different. holding hands, hugging, kissing. or fighting together, against a thing, but i never know what it is. and then i wake up! and poof, it’s all gone, nothing left. so that kind of sucks.

but i doubt it means anything. i just wish i knew his name.

ignore me, just john crocker, making up an imaginary boyfriend in his head!

bluh.

[ john crocker ]

You notice how big the writing is, and how long that entry is -- that means this journal can’t possibly go on for much longer. You flick a few pages ahead, noting that there are only three other entries after that one, all years apart. But you’re more concerned by the description of “the boy.” You would be lying if you said it didn’t bother you that John Crocker’s dream boy has all of your attributes, right down to the red eyes.

Weird. You shake your head and turn to the next entry.

december 25th, 1938

merry christmas!

i totally forgot about this thing, i haven’t written in it since i was thirteen. had my eighteenth birthday a few months back, so now i’m officially an adult and i guess that makes me writing in this even more childish. oh well, anything to escape dad’s fruit cake. bluh, i hate fruit cake. he knows that, too, but he still tries to make me eat it.

what an asshole. i still love him, though, but that doesn’t make him any less of an asshole. it’s been years since i’ve dreamt about the girls and the boy, i think i was fifteen the last time it happened. i can barely remember what they look like! i had to turn back to the last pages to remember, the ones i wrote when i was thirteen.

recently i’ve started dreaming about them again. one of the girls told me her name, so i’m taking it as an accomplishment! it really isn’t though, because it was the black haired one, and she told me exactly what i thought - her name is jade. when i said, “duh” she rolled her eyes at me and said she was a different jade.

when i asked her what she meant by that, she only winked, and then i woke up. even dream jade is kind of a bitch (a lovable bitch, but a bitch, nonetheless). i haven’t seen the boy in years, really hope he’s ok. if he’s a real person i hope he is, too. maybe he isn’t even alive?

i don’t know, these dreams never really seemed like dreams to me. i think they’re memories, but that wouldn’t make any sense. i don’t remember my cousin ever having dog ears, or me wearing these really weird blue pajamas and yellow sneakers. or having a dorky hood that makes me look like a sock.

until next time, dream journal. don’t expect it to be soon.

[ john crocker ]

You turn the page, muttering “holy shit” when you read the date of the next entry. There’s a much larger gap between these two then there were between the last two, but you guess you really aren’t that surprised. John had said he wouldn’t be writing in the dream journal again for a long time, and he’d been true to his word.

You notice your ass has fallen asleep, so you readjust your position and start reading.

april 13th, 1950

today, i am thirty.

the big three-o, my wife says. yes, thanks honey, because i wanted you to remind me that i’m getting old. love you too. but this isn’t my “complain about my wife” journal, that one’s somewhere else. (between you and me, it’s hidden beneath my joke books, but don’t tell her that, she’ll get mad).

a few months ago i had another dream, and now i’m finally noticing that i don’t actually age in it. every time i have the dreams, i wake up with gangly limbs and a scrawny body, which makes me probably about fifteen. maybe younger, maybe older, but it has to be somewhere around there. it has to be. but anyway, a few months ago i figured out another name, which i’m proud of.

rose lalonde.

the second girl, the blonde one, is named rose lalonde. she was much more helpful than the creepy dog version of my cousin, and she told me the dreams i have are all memories. when i asked her how she knew that, she only gave me a smile and said, “i am the seer of light, john. i know all.” and then i woke up.

weird, huh? i’m thankful for her help, but that doesn’t mean i’m any less creeped out by her. besides, how can i believe anything she said? the seer of light? knowing it all? no, i have a hard time believing any of that. i just think it’s bullshit, sorry rose.

[ john crocker ]

“Okay, yeah, I’m taking a break from ready time,” You say to no one in particular, closing the journal and setting it down on your coffee table. Then you get up, waste a few minutes searching for the phone, and dial Rose’s number. She goes to greet you, but you cut her off mid-hello. “Seer of Light, Rose?”

She doesn’t say anything in return. You think you hear her inhale sharply, but it could just be your imagination. “Did you have a dream of some sort, Dave?” She asks, and you hear something slam. You don’t respond right away, because she starts yelling at Roxy and scolding her for knocking over the bookshelf again. You laugh internally at the again, but it sounds nervous. “Apologies. Roxy knows better. Now, back to your issue, Dave. Where did you hear the title Seer of Light?”

“A notebook,” You reply. “A journal.”

She hums in response, and you hear another slam. There’s more yelling, then creaking and stomping. You wouldn’t be surprised if that’s Roxy making her way upstairs, because she always stomps when she’s angry with Rose. “A journal, you say? And who pray tell does this mysterious journal belong to, Dave?”

You can’t tell whether she’s being serious or not -- no matter what she says, there’s always a hint of sarcasm in her voice. It’s doubtful she knows about it, it’s likely something she can’t control, but it always confuses you because you can never tell whether she’s actually concerned or if she’s just humoring you. “John Crocker.”

There’s no hum this time; in fact, Rose doesn’t say a word. This time, you do hear her inhale sharply, loud and clear. “I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you, so don’t you dare go blabbing to someone or making a film about this,” She starts, and now you’re kind of fucking horrified. But you promise to keep quiet about whatever she’s going to tell you. “Since adolescence, I’ve had odd dreams. Ones where we all had these strange titles. I was often referred to as the Seer of Light, and you the Knight of Time. We were friends with two others -- the Heir of Breath and the Witch of Space.”

You don’t see the point of this. Instead of replying instantly, you make your way back to the couch and pick the notebook up, balancing the phone between your shoulder and your ear. “Yeah, cool? Great for us I guess, but are you going somewhere with this?”

“When I was twenty, I believe, I found the last two had names. Real names, not just those odd titles. The Witch of Space went by Jade Harley, and the Heir of Breath went by John Egbert. I suppose it could be a coincidence that he has the same first name as John Crocker, but this is all too strange for that to be merely a coincidence.”

Remembrance sparks in your brain. Now that, that’s a name you remember. But you can’t remember from where, or who the person is. The name is just familiar; it’s like a memory you want to remember but you can’t, one that’s buried beneath a plethora of other ones. And it sucks. “Rose, stay on the line while I read John Crocker’s final journal entry, will you?”

“My pleasure, dear brother.”

august 22nd, 1970

i am way too old to be writing in this, but there are only a few pages left. it’s been twenty years since i picked this old thing up, so it was covered in dirt and dust bunnies. i read some of my old entries, and they made me remember that stuff i tried to forget. i guess i could always tell my wife instead of writing in here, but i don’t know, that just doesn’t seem like the option i should go with.

i know his name. i know the boy. he told me his name when i was forty, but not to him, to him i’m always going to be fifteen. (and i’ll always be john egbert.)

his name is dave strider. do you understand figuring out his name meant everything to me? probably not, you haven’t been trying to figure it out since you were only thirteen. wow, it sounds ridiculous when i write it down. i waited all those years just to figure out someone’s name, how stupid is that? pretty stupid.

well anyway, that’s him. he was dave strider, he was the knight of time, and he was the love of my life. and there you have it, journal.

[ john crocker ]

“Holy fucking shit,” You say into the phone, your voice partially a laugh and partially the beginning of a sob. When Rose asks, “what?” you nearly jump out of your skin; you’d completely forgotten about asking her to stay on the line. “John Crocker is John Egbert, and apparently he remembered a hell of a lot better than me because--can I just read you the last lines of his journal?”

“Feel free.” Rose responds, and you hear fabric hit fabric. She must’ve sat down.

“‘Well anyway, that’s him. He was Dave Strider, he was the Knight of Time, and he was the love of my life. And there you have it, journal.’ Rose, I’m asking for your freaky as shit help right now, was he the love of my life?”

“Perhaps,” She replies, and you groan. Then there’s a small laugh. “Yes, he was. I’m honestly shocked you’ve never had any dreams, Dave. Or have you? You have a problem with suppressing things.”

“Quit breaking out your psychology degree on me. Save it for someone else. I’ve never had any dreams, and frankly I find all of this to be bullshit. It’s an elaborate prank, isn’t it? Involving my innocent Dirk in your sneaky Lalonde pranks, I’m appalled.”

Rose laughs delicately, and you hear her shift. “Dirk is anything but innocent, I hate to inform you. It’s perfectly fine if you don’t believe me, but it is the truth.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, whatever.”

The two of you hold a conversation for a little longer, and then she tell you she has to go and hangs up. You set the phone down and get up, grabbing the notebook from the table and burying it in the back yard. You aren’t too keen on keeping it in your house, and unlike Dirk you do actually believe it should go back where it came from.

Then you walk back inside and flop down on the sofa, turning the television on. You end up falling asleep, one arm and one leg hanging over the side of the couch, sunglasses still on. You wake up covered in red dust, in a body that’s definitely yours but it isn’t the one you have now. It’s your puberty body, gangly limbs and all.

There’s someone standing in front of you when you stand up, with a lopsided bucktoothed grin and electric blue eyes. He tells you his name is John Egbert, and he’s missed you very, very much.

**Author's Note:**

> Was this okay?  
> I sure as hell hope it was okay, I wrote it over the span of two days.
> 
> Thanks for reading, whether you kudos or comment or bookmark or not.


End file.
